Nana takes a step back and cranes her neck so she can see the men high on the rickety scaffolding leaned against the cathedral wall. The sun glints off of her glasses.“You there!” she yells, and when they don’t respond, she calls again until the men look in our direction. “Yes, hello. We would like to tour the cathedral.”

“Let’s go, Nana,” I hiss, embarrassed as the men chuckle and point at us. They aren’t speaking English, but I know what they’re saying.

Nana plants her feet and puts her hands on her hips. She’s barely five feet tall, but her face is stony. She points at one of the men—clearly the one in charge—and then points at a spot on the ground next to her. The laughing stops.

Nana tells everyone the tour of the cathedral was her favorite part of the trip.

**As a side note, I wasn’t going to participate this week because my work week got the best of me. However, I stumbled across an article written by British historian Philip Beck about the burning of Saint Malo, France, the city in the photo (looks like it anyway–if not, I’m just going to pretend it is!). I couldn’t get it out of my head, so this little piece is my homage to the burning of that city in 1944. Please forgive the fact that my French narrator is speaking in English; my French is pretty miserable!

Photo courtesy of TJ Paris

A Childhood in Flames – 126 words

I was ten in 1944, the year ash rained down over the walled city of Saint Malo.

It was the first summer I didn’t spend down at the beach, poking at urchins in the tide pools and chasing my friends with ropes of seaweed tangled in my hair. I thought myself too grown up to race down the cobblestone path, trying to prevent my shoes from getting soaked as the tide returned, cutting our little island off from the French mainland.

Instead, I spent my days in Father’s library, blushing my way through Baudelaire’s poetry and flirting through the tall windows with the German soldiers marching through the streets below.

When the Americans shelled the city that August, I understood what a child I really was.

When Jordy planted sunflower seeds in the narrow bed of soil in front of her house, she told me she was channeling her inner Van Gogh. As far as I knew, the closest she’d ever gotten to a Van Gogh painting was a postcard on her refrigerator.

Why sunflowers, I asked. Why not zinnias to attract butterflies or sweet peas so passersby could stroll along perfumed pavement? Tulips to herald spring? Chrysanthemums to rival the color of autumn leaves?

Jordy ignored my questions, adjusting the scarf on her head as she pushed seeds into the dark ground.

The sunflowers grew tall that summer. Each day, Jordy sat bundled in her chair watching them. Their heads and hers followed the trajectory of the sun across the sky.